I Could Be Italian

No, really I could. I have dark hair, a smigi of a larger nose, have dreams of pasta and always liked the name Giana. I could be, really.

This topic came about because a friend and I were talking about his neighborhood/borough which is made of different ethnicity's - Italian, Irish, Colombian and so on. He lives in Brooklyn, Greenpoint to be more specific. I've never been there but I suppose one day I will. His landlady - Jackie is a much older, elderly if you will Polish lady. From what my friend says - has a very thick accent - "ohhhh Anthonee you such a nice boheee".

Jackie came here years and years, ok decades ago. Has a daughter who has 3 kids of her own. Her daughter was one of those kids who shunned their heritage which leaves a huge communication slash connection gap with her mother. Sad, I say, sad.

So I think of all those quaint and kept to their selves communities full of people who traveled here from other parts of the world to gain a better life in the Big Apple by way of the quiet lady waving her torch known to many as Ellis Island. While I can't connect with those people I worry that the traditions they traveled across oceans with will disappear - the dialect, family recipes, old world stories of a simpler time.

I am an Alabamian by birth. Born here, still live here. My parents, their parents and their grand parents all were implanted in the Yellowhammer State. I have ventured outside of my birth zone - to live, to visit but I always find my way back. My family stories are my own and my family is pretty small by most standards.

I guess I could be Italian if Italian's ate cornbread, fried chicken and grits and named their bambini's Kimberly.